I spring back as he's about to touch me.
"What are you doing? What's that in your hand?" I ask, backing away towards the office doors.
My father touches his skull-port, and two guards surge in, talking hold of my arms. I summon my power—but before I can do any damage, there's a prick of pain at the back of my hand—an odd liquid sensation coursing from that spot up my arm, to my shoulder, my neck, my brain—
26
I shift under the sheets.
Where am I? Home? Rak's apartment? I blink, and the space comes into focus—a plain room with pale blue walls and a gray metal desk and chair.
I sit up slowly, and the sheets and blankets slide from my shoulder. They're thinner and coarser than the ones I have at home.
My head hurts. I put my hand to the spot where the pain is worst, behind my right ear.
Something cold, smooth, and hard. A raised bump with a rectangular groove in the center. They—
A scream surges inside me. They put it back—
They put my skull-port back in.
Lurching off the bed, I smack both hands against the desk and oscillate its molecules with all my might.
The surface grows faintly warmer. A barely discernible difference.
Hot tears spill from my eyes. I run to the door and pull the handle, ready to march through the hospital punching people until someone agrees to remove this implant from my head.
But the door won't open. As I wrench the handle, I notice a band of smooth metal around my wrist, with a tiny, blinking light. I trace its surface, but there's no discernible way to open it, and it's too tight for me to slip it off.
I focus on the door again. Through the slit of a window, I glimpse a hallway outside, also pale blue, like the walls of my room. A dead-lips blue. A lifeless, airless blue.
I hammer the door with my fist until the side of my hand aches. Then I stalk the square perimeter of the room, peering into the closet-sized bathroom before stalking some more.
Finally, against every instinct, I try using the skull-port's communication relay. Of course it's disabled; they probably turned off everything but the suppressor.
More pacing, more waiting. I hate waiting, especially when it leaves me with nowhere to aim the riot of fury inside me.
Where has my father put me? He's making good on his threat, punishing me for what I've done.
My steps falter, and stop. Rak. What will he do to Rak? It won't be hard for him to find out where Rak lives. Safi and Alik—will he lock them up, or send them back to Emsalis? Everything I've worked for could be undone.
Why did I think I had to go public right away? I should have waited. Should have planned and plotted and started out small, sowing information seed by seed instead of spraying it everywhere.
But I thought a big gesture would get me the most attention, maybe spur my people to act and ask questions. Maybe it has, but at what cost to me?
With a beep and a click, my room door unlocks, and a blue-coated man walks in. He reminds me of Vern, my head of security who was shot in Emsalis. Blond, primly coiffed, a bland yet pleasant face.
"Good morning, Miss Remay!" he says brightly. "It's an honor to have you here!"
I curl my fingers and press my nails into my palms to keep from punching him. "Where am I?"
"In the Institute for Mental Health, Miss Remay," he answers. "And please be assured that you'll receive the very best of care here. We had to accommodate you in a hurry last night, but we're happy to bring in any little luxuries you require—special toiletries, extra bedding, whatever you like. I'll make a list here if you'll tell me what you need during your stay." He projects his holoscreen and waits, finger poised to type.
"My stay?" I laugh harshly. "I'm not staying here."
His eyes dart away from mine. "That's something you'll need to discuss with your doctor. You have your first scheduled appointment in an hour. Here's your itinerary." He whips a page from the holoscreen onto the room wall.
I step closer to the lines of glowing type. "Benchmark session... behavioral adjustment session... recalibration easement? Babes' blood, what is this?"
"Your—your schedule." He steps back as I advance.
"My father told you I'm crazy?"
"I, uh—" Swiftly he slips out the door and shuts it behind him. The schedule on the wall vanishes.
I sink to the floor, my breath stuttering, eyes burning. This is worse than being in a regular hospital for a few days "recovering" from a forced implant installation. My father has put me in the Institute for Mental Health. My mother spent time here when I was very small—I remember wandering around the empty rooms in our house, asking the system where she was.
Did she enter the Institute because she needed to, or did my father put her in here for a different reason? To teach her compliance, maybe?
If this is his game, I have to learn to play. I have to act as calm, sane, and pleasant as I possibly can, so everyone in this place will know that I don't belong in here. Once they release me, I can check on Rak and the others.
A white-clad, middle-aged woman with a square face and a stun-stick at her belt comes to fetch me for my first appointment. I've tidied myself up using the toiletries in the tiny bathroom. Head high, shoulders back. Smile. This is a show, no different from those I put on for the feedrunners and their vid drones. I can do this.
The doctor's office isn't painted blue—it's a sickly green the color of creamed peas. Seating myself in the pale yellow chair, I wait, with the guard standing still and silent behind me.
In a moment a door at the back of the room opens, and the doctor enters. He is shorter than me, older than my father, with hollow eye sockets and faded skin stretched over prominent cheekbones and a pointed jaw. He was probably handsome in his youth; but now, the shape of his skull looks ready to burst through that thin layer of taut, wrinkled skin.
He lowers himself into the chair opposite me and pulls up a holo-screen from the desk surface. "Miss Zilara Remay. You've been through quite the ordeal in the past couple of months."
"Yes, sir. Doctor."
He peers at me. "You may call me Doctor Zu. And may I call you Zilara?"
"Of course."
"Zilara, do you know why you're here?"
"Because I publicly expressed political opinions that differ from my father's."
He purses his wrinkled lips. "On the surface that may seem to be the case. But let's look at the facts, my dear. You invented documents, images, and files and leaked them to the public as purported evidence of some great conspiracy; but in reality we both know that the data was fake."
"It wasn't fake."
"No? Then how exactly did you lay your hands on the information? Through upright, legal means, or otherwise?"
I see the trap now. I can't prove that that data I released was authentic without admitting my role in the theft from Amzen. We were so careful not to provide anyone with physical evidence linking us to the theft. They have nothing tangible to connect me to the robbery, except for my claim to have a "source" that I need to protect.
"I was given the information," I say.
"By whom?"
"I can't say. Is this a psychological consultation or an interrogation?"
"Perhaps a little of both." He taps his fingernails on the desk. "Because, you see, if the evidence you presented is real, that would mean you or an accomplice broke into a private establishment, stole private property, and disseminated that property to others. And if that were the case—whatever your motives may have been, you have broken a number of national laws. Those actions would warrant your placement in a facility quite different from this one."
I gaze at him in silence.
"So you see, all that purported data must be false." He leans forward. "Tell me that you made it all up. Otherwise, I'm afraid we'll need many sessions of therapy to work through the trauma that incited this compulsive lying and conspiracy obsession."
He wants me to admit that I lied, that I falsified the
data, or stay here indefinitely.
"What would such an admission achieve?" I ask. "The people of Ceanna know the truth now."
"Ah, but do they?" He smiles, showing long, narrow teeth and too much gum. "Truth is a fascinating and flexible entity. It can be shifted and shown in many lights."
Unfortunately, he's right. Who knows what kind of twist my father's publicity team has put on my speech by now. I can only hope that enough people took me seriously to make a difference—to look deeply at the evidence and begin asking their own questions.
Time for a change in tactics. "So my father was more angered by the suppressor information than by my position on the war in Emsalis?"
"That, my dear, is a different issue. When you returned from Emsalis, you were examined for subliminal conditioning and evaluated by a respected colleague of mine. However, even respected colleagues can be wrong. She cleared you as being in good mental health, but I think she may have failed to diagnose some deeper issues resulting from your time as a hostage. I plan to unpack those issues during your stay here."
Over the next hour he asks question after question, until my brain is weary and my heart sore from revisiting those weeks in Emsalis again and again, always monitoring the doctor's body language, evaluating my own responses, wording every sentence carefully so it can't be used against me. By the time he lets me return to my room, I'm exhausted.
I lie down, flat on the scratchy blanket, staring at the white ceiling. The scent of cleaning fluid and artificial fragrance enhancer in the room doesn't quite cover the underlying staleness of the air. What I wouldn't give for a breath of fresh forest air, or even the icy night wind of the Emsali desert!
I'm a firm believer in mental health treatment and therapy, or I wouldn't have asked Rak to seek help for his own trauma. But like anything else, the very tactics that can help heal the mind can also be used to destroy it. And after the session I just had, I'm wondering if that's exactly what Doctor Zu plans to do to me—twist me up inside until I can't see the truth anymore and I'm so desperate to get out that I'll agree to anything he says.
I could go along—faking compliance, like I planned. But if I admit even once that the data was falsified, I have no doubt my confession will be recorded and broadcast to all of Ceanna, and I will be completely discredited.
The nervous blond man who showed me my itinerary arrives with lunch—soft bread, roasted vegetables, strips of tender meat. It's good, and I eat it all. After that I'm escorted to my behavioral therapy session.
They place me in a blank room, much like the immersive movie theater at Riot House; and run simulations around me, scenarios in which I have to choose between my personal ideals and the greater good. Whenever I choose wrong, a current transfers through the floor and into my body, painfully jarring every nerve. At first, it's an annoying discomfort; but after a full hour of shocks, I'm ready to call it torture.
The "recalibration easement" isn't much better. It's two hours of propaganda vids about the legacy of the Magnates and Ceanna's role in the world.
By the time my guard walks me back to my room, I am mentally and physically spent. I crawl into the sheets and bury my face in the pillow, biting my lip harshly to keep back the tears.
"Rak," I whisper. "Where are you?"
The next day unfolds in exactly the same way. A session with Doctor Zu, in which my brain and heart are sliced open and laid bare on his desk for him to pick through. More behavioral therapy simulations, with subtle shocks whenever I don't achieve the desired result. More recalibration vids.
On my way to these sessions, I pass communal rooms filled with couches and tables, where other residents are relaxing, playing games, and smiling at each other. I'm not allowed to join them, and if I slow my pace, my guard touches my back with the harmless end of his stun-stick—a respectful reminder to keep moving.
My parents used to lock me in my room for hours when I behaved badly, especially if I did it in public. Now that I'm grown, this is my father's equivalent to that punishment. I seethe inwardly, and I watch the halls, the cameras, the guards. I struggle with the institutional security bracelet on my wrist, but it's no use; unless I chop my hand off, it's not budging. And I'm not that desperate yet.
Once, when we're passing a common room, I gasp loudly and point. "Does that woman have a gun?"
"Where?" My guard turns to look, and I race for the door at the end of the hall, a door marked "Stairway: Exit."
The instant I pass through it, the entire doorframe lights up in garish orange, and the light on my bracelet turns a matching orange. A painful, nerve-jangling shock spears through my body, and I collapse, breathless and gasping.
The guard strides up to me, her square face rigid with annoyance. "Get up."
"Can't blame a girl for trying," I say. No use fighting her. Even if I could snag her stun-stick, I wouldn't be able to get past the doors in this sector. And I have no idea how these bracelets come off. There must be some tool or scanner that unlocks them; but with my limited exposure to the rooms on this level, I have no way of finding out more.
By the end of the first week, I'm already losing hope. Doctor Zu claims to be disappointed in my progress. I have no way to rid myself of the bracelet. No one will tell me anything about Rak or my friends.
I may not be able to get myself out of this one.
I'm not allowed a holo-screen, or anything electronic—only a few old-fashioned paper books with slick covers. I read them all in the first few days. After that, during the long, boring evenings in my room, I exercise, stretching and strengthening my legs and arms. I don't know if I'll make it out of here in time to take my spot on the Rippan College aeroball team, but just in case I do, I need to keep up my strength.
Late at night, I lie on the bed and imagine Rak coming to save me. In one scenario, he bursts into one of my therapy sessions, stuns Doctor Zu, and shoots our way out of the Institute. In another, he unlocks the door of my room and kisses me fiercely before guiding me out of the building to a waiting hoverpod. And then we make love in the hoverpod on the way to safety. They're lovely, stupid dreams, worthy of the silly girls in my upper-level classes. Not worthy of Zilara Remay, desert warrior and survivor. But I indulge myself anyway, because what else is there to do?
I ache for him. His absence is a hollow carved into my heart, my soul, my very bones. I miss the rough caress of his fingers. The cleft of his chin, his scarred lips. Those beautiful, liquid-dark eyes. The smell of him.
The questions run through my head incessantly. Is he safe? Is he trapped? Does he blame me? Is he coming for me? He could be back in Emsalis for all I know. I'm concerned for Safi and Alik, too, of course; but Rak, my Rak—he's the one I need to know about.
Day seven, and I can't take it any longer. When I arrive in Doctor Zu's office, I plunk into the chair and cross my arms. "I'm not speaking today, unless you tell me where Rak is."
"Rak, Rak—hmm. You mean Rakhi Masdar, the young rebel you claim to have a relationship with?"
"Where is he?"
"I believe he's been confined on suspicion of conspiracy against the Ceannan government, unlawful infiltration of a private facility, and theft of sensitive property. They put him in Geerjan Prison."
Geerjan Prison? It's a terrible place, filled with the worst of Ceanna's filth. Murderers, crime bosses, rapists. My heart kicks into a panicked rhythm.
Doctor Zu is watching me, the ghost of a smile on his shriveled lips. "Of course, if someone else were to claim sole responsibility for the infiltration and theft, young Rakhi would be released."
I open my lips to tell him I did it. To save Rak.
But that calculating look in the Doctor's eyes—that hint of jubilation—he thinks he has won.
I hesitate. He could be lying about Rak's whereabouts, to get me to confess. And even if the doctor isn't lying, my rebel is strong. He wouldn't want me to give in.
I imagine him, standing behind me in the guard's place, his hand on my shoulder. "Where's that sm
art mouth of yours, Zilara?" he would say. "Tell him to screw himself."
The Doctor is watching me, a slight frown replacing his smile. "I hear that young men like Rakhi are in high demand at Geerjan Prison. The guards try to forestall any violence of course; but they can't be everywhere at once."
I give him a wicked smile. "I pity the prisoners who try to make a meal of him. You should really offer them all free body armor; they're going to need it."
Doctor Zu's paper-thin eyelids flicker, and his mouth tightens. It's the first sign of frustration I've seen from him. Maybe I'm not the one who's about to break.
"Let's talk about actions and consequences today," he says.
"Please do," I reply, still smiling. And I don't speak again for the remainder of the session. Instead I think of Alik, and I do my best to mimic his cocky smile.
"Your new vein of stubbornness is unbecoming and unwelcome, Miss Remay," says the doctor after an hour of silence from me. "If this continues, I shall have to begin prescribing medications to help you relax and recover."
Fear stabs through me, and I fight to keep my insolent smile in place. Medication? If he drugs me, if he messes with my mind, I'll be even less capable of escaping on my own.
That night, I twist in the sheets, struggling with what to do next. I need a strategy, some way to turn the tables and get out of here.
But I was never one for making careful plans. I'm usually the "dive in and see what happens" type. Unfortunately that doesn't seem to be working here.
I'm finally drifting to sleep when something scuffles and thumps outside my door.
I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Tense, ready for anything.
The door opens.
But it's not my dark-eyed rebel.
27
In the doorway stands blue-haired Vissa with her eagle's eyes. Safi, tall and fierce, gripping a gun and a com unit. And just behind them, sweet, soft-spoken Reya, holding the hand of a glassy-eyed guard. She must have just pressed his thumb to the bio-lock on my cell.
Princess of Lies and Legends (The Evolved Book 2) Page 26